God Hates Us

~2 months later~

I know I’m cutting it close, but this is a chance I can’t miss.

I have to see him.

For all I know, they might’ve found out he helped me escape and... what? Killed him?

Unlikely. But I have to know he’s alright.

The crowd screams, rushing forwards as a timer on the screen behind the stage counts down from ten.

3...2...1.

As the spotlights come on, I quickly scan the stage. There he is; standing just outside the pool of light, bass guitar in hand. He turns, and I’m able to see his face.

He’s alright. The sense of relief I feel at this seemingly trivial discovery is huge.

Now, unlike the first time I saw this band live, I can actually afford to enjoy myself. I’ve always preferred this kind of music over any other style, and these guys really are good at what they do. When the crowd surges forwards again, I push forward with it, careful to stay a certain distance from the stage. Just in case.

I keep my eyes on Johnny, smiling as I see him grin at Zacky, his fingers flying across the fretboard of his guitar. Then, suddenly, the unthinkable happens.

Our eyes meet.

His expression freezes, but then he looks away quickly, keeping it together enough to finish the song without mishap. When the song ends I can feel his eyes on my back, but I don't look round. I’m outta there; that was not supposed to happen.

He wasn’t supposed to know I was there; not after the weeks I've spent staying under the radar. I fully expected Zacky to send someone after me, and it's mostly down to luck and chance that I haven't already been dragged kicking and screaming back to that house.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

The twenty minute drive back to my apartment goes by like a blur. It’s a good thing the roads are clear tonight; there could be an accident, as distracted as I am. I shove my door open and lock it behind me, walking into the kitchen, where something white suddenly darts out from under the table and jumps at me.

“Argh! Jesus, Marco!” I grab the cat by the scruff of the neck and hold him up at eye level. “We’ve talked about this...”

He licks my nose, apparently pleased that I’m home. I’m not technically allowed a ‘pet’ in my apartment, but when I got back after my sojourn at Zacky’s place I found that he and an identical white female cat had moved in. After a few days, they had adopted me as their owner; I’m still not sure how they got in, but there they were, and they weren’t leaving. So, resigning myself to feeding three mouths instead of one, I kept Marco and his twin sister Polo. I named them on a whim, but mostly I just call them ‘You’, as in “You, get down from there!” or “You, come here!”. Mostly they keep to themselves, except when they want food.

“Oh, for crying out loud,” I mutter, plonking him on the counter and reaching into the fridge. “Where’s your sister?”

He leaps down onto the floor and starts winding round my legs. I’m convinced he can understand every word I’m saying, but just chooses to ignore me when it suits him. He knows perfectly well what I keep in the fridge, though.

When I’ve found Polo, and fed the cats and myself, I head into the bathroom for a quick shower.

“More than a feeling...” I hum without thinking, then stop and frown. Was I just...singing? I never sing.

Well, I guess hanging out with Avenged Sevenfold must’ve revived my musical side.

I shrug, then carry on rinsing my hair, singing louder and revelling in the fact that nobody can hear how off-key I am.

Ten minutes later I wrap a towel round me and step out of the bathroom, closing the blinds and switching the TV on. I only stayed at the gig for an hour, so it’s not that late; settling on the couch with a couple of beers, I get ready for an evening of watching whatever trashy cop shows are on.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

By half eleven, though, I start to feel tired. Getting up, I walk into the kitchen, dump the empty bottles in the sink, then head for my bedroom.

Suddenly I freeze in the doorway, one hand creeping to the door-frame where I keep a stiletto knife taped to the inner edge by the wall. Removing it silently, I turn around, prepared to meet whatever had just walked across my apartment. Too loud to be a cat; too quiet to be a human.

“Evening.”

My head whips round and I feel a strange mixture of shock and relief. “Johnny? What the hell are you doing here?”

"I wanted to see you," he says softly, looking hopeful.

For a second, all I can do is stare in disbelief, then I toss the knife into the sink with a clatter. He takes a step forwards, and despite my still-wounded pride (and the fact that I’m only wearing a towel), I can’t help but lean into him as he wraps his arms round me, holding me close.

“I’ve missed you,” he whispers.

“I’ve missed you too,” I reply, and it’s true. I wouldn’t have admitted it to anyone else, but it’s why I risked going to see him tonight.

He’s changed his hair; I hadn’t noticed before. Now it’s darker, and shorter at the sides with a spiky stripe down the middle.

“Saw you earlier. Why’d you take off?” he asks, letting me go and frowning slightly.

“Too much of a risk. Speaking of, aren’t you risking somebody getting suspicious, coming here?” I fold my arms over my chest so the towel stays put.

“They don't know I’m here.” He waves a hand at the couch. “D’you mind? I’m beat.”

“Be my guest.” I sit down too, watching as he leans back, closing his eyes.

“Ah... That’s better. D’you have any idea how heavy that guitar is after two fuckin’ hours?” he mutters, rubbing the back of his neck.

I chuckle. “So where do they think you are, then?”

“Strip club,” he replied, casually.

“...Right.” Naturally.

“So they won’t be expecting me back till late... Or tomorrow...” He trails off, gauging my reaction.

I'm trying hard to keep my poker face up; it's difficult for me not to smile. “I’m still pissed at you, by the way.”

“Thought you might be.” He grins cheekily and turns slightly, offering me a free jab at his side. “I’m still ticklish?”

“Nah, too easy.” I lean over and make as if I’m going to kiss him, then pull back at the last second. I’m going to make you suffer, Johnny Christ...

Within seconds, the towel is gone, as are most of Johnny's clothes, but I don't let him have his way just yet. No; pushing him back down on the couch, I sit straddling him, my fingertips tracing circles across the smooth skin of his chest and stomach, slowly moving downwards. His eyes close slightly and he bites his lip, but it's not until he's almost begging, head leaning back and eyes closed, that I relent. From there, the evening dissolves into a whirl of heat and feeling that takes us all over the apartment, neither of us surfacing until late in the night, when we pause only to stumble drunkenly into my bedroom in order to continue our activities in a more comfortable location.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

The first thing I’m aware of when I wake up is that I’m not alone. Turning my head slightly, I spot a tattooed hand resting on my stomach. Funny, I never noticed his tattoos before. Guess I was distracted...

“Morning,” he says cheerily, sitting up and looking down at me with a smile. “Breakfast?”

“Mmm hmm.” I raise my head and peer out of the bedroom door. “...Whoa.”

“Yeah... We got some cleaning up to do.” Johnny grins and sits on the side of the bed, then looks around. “Where’d my clothes go?”

“Um, the couch, I think. And the floor. And the kitchen.” We both laugh.

“I didn’t even know it was possible to do that in a kitchen sink.”

"Mmm." I rub my eyes, then sit up, reaching towards the bedside cabinet. Opening the drawer, I pull out some panties and an oversized black T-shirt, ignoring his theatrical groan as I partially dress. "You. Go find some clothes," I order, pointing at the door.

"Fine..." He pouts, but does as he's told.

Getting up slowly, I stand in the doorway for a few seconds, then walk into the kitchen, pleased to see we haven't broken anything. Well, nothing valuable, anyway, I amend quickly. The small stack of crockery that had been on the counter by the sink was now on the floor in pieces. Oh, well. They're just plates. I step over them carefully and reach down under the sink, grabbing a large bowl and a frying pan.

The fridge is pretty empty, but it's got what I want: eggs, butter and milk; flour and sugar come from another cupboard.

"What're you making?" he asks over my shoulder as I spoon flour into the bowl, counting the spoonfuls.

"Five...Six. Pancakes," I reply, rolling down the top of the flour bag. "Pass me the sugar, would you?"

I glance over at the rest of the room as he hands me the bag of sugar and my jaw drops.

"That was quick." The couch cushions are all straight, the floor is devoid of clothes and all my books are back on the shelf. It actually looks tidier than before we started making the mess.

"Wait... Did you arrange my books in height order?" I ask, grinning.

"...Maybe." He averts his eyes.

I didn't know vamps could have OCD.

"Yeah, well..." he mutters, embarrassed, and I smirk slightly, then start cracking the eggs into the bowl.

"Can I help?" he asks, watching me stir the mix.

"Sure, the syrup's in the top cupboard, plates are down the bottom. Forks are in the drawer."

"Kay." He gets the things out and sets them on the counter, then leans against the fridge and watches me cook. The pancakes don't take long; I amuse him by spectacularly flipping the first few, then settle for just tossing them onto a plate.

"Dig in."

He obliges, smothering a pile of pancakes in syrup and demolishing them in seconds. "Wow. How'd you learn to cook this good?" he asks through his last mouthful.

Blushing slightly, I hide my proud smile behind my hair as I turn back to the stove to finish cooking the rest. "I used to watch my mom."

"Oh, right." He swallows and sets down his fork.

"You're pretty good too, though," I say, to divert attention from myself. "What's your excuse?"

"Food Network," he replies, with a wry smile. "Not much to do when we're not recording and daytime TV sucks ass."

I open my mouth to comment, when a noise makes me stop. "Shh."

He frowns, but has enough sense not to ask me what's wrong. Instead, he turns his head slightly and listens too. His hearing is much more sensitive than mine, but even he doesn't seem to pick up anything. I raise an eyebrow and he shrugs, then suddenly he yelps in pain. "Ow! What the-"

"Polo! Get off of him!" I swoop down and grab the cat, lifting her onto the counter. She fluffs out her fur, hissing at him; he takes a step back, holding his hands up. "Hey, it's okay," I say to him, seeing the look on his face.

"Cats don't like me," he says, keeping his distance from the spitting cat.

"Alright." I grab her round the middle and haul her towards the bathroom door, shutting it in her face. "She'll get over it."

He laughs, slipping an arm round my waist. "What d'you wanna do now?"

I open my mouth to answer, when another hissing noise catches my attention. "Dammit... Marco!"

"Marco and Polo?" Johnny asks, amused, as I get to my feet and go in search of the troubled cat.

"Don't ask."

Finally, I locate him, cowering under the coffee table.

"What's wrong with you?" I ask, reaching under the table to try and coax him out. He swipes at me. "Ow!" I pull my hand back quickly. Two long lines are scored across the back, deep enough to draw blood.

"You alright?" Suddenly Johnny's there, his hand on my shoulder.

I hold my hand up ruefully. "Looks like they don't like me either."

"Actually, when I said that, I meant my kind. As a rule, vamps don't get on well with cats."

"I thought that was just a myth." I frown.

He shakes his head. "Nope, that's one of the true ones. But..."

"What?"

"...He wasn't hissing at me."

I freeze, looking at him with question marks all over my face. "Then who was he hissing at?"

"God, you're slow!"

Both of us turn; behind me I hear the cat bolting into the bedroom and skittering under the bed.

Dark brown (almost black) hair frames her pale, almond-shaped face in a short bob. A pair of brownish-hazel eyes glitter as she smiles. Beside me, I feel Johnny tense, then in a heartbeat, he's standing protectively in front of me.

"Who the fuck are you?" I demand, wishing I was in the kitchen and could reach for a knife, a skewer; anything I can use as a weapon.

She tilts her head slightly on one side and frowns. "Aren't you going to introduce us, Johnny?" Her voice is soft, but with a definite edge.

"Johnny?" I ask, without looking away from her.

He doesn't speak, but his hand finds mine and grips it tightly.

The stranger laughs coldly. "I'm Lacey."